


Doom (ficlet)

by ErisianDiva78



Category: Doom (2005)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Blood, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide Attempt, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-04 00:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5313446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErisianDiva78/pseuds/ErisianDiva78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots set both before and after the movie. Dark. Angsty. Mentions of suicide and general fuckery. You've been warned. This is not a happy piece</p><p>Upping the Rating because things might get a little more dicey in the near future... And because it probably should have been that from the get-go...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Greasy, too-long-to-be-regulation hair hung in his face while he worked. His eyes were bloodshot. Dark bruising from too many hours awake marred the tender flesh beneath his eyes. The radio that had been playing classic rock sat askew near his elbow. He'd bumped it and forgotten to right it. In doing so, it had knocked the dial and the only sound coming from the single speaker was static. It was set to low, so he'd been ignoring it - like so many other things - while he worked. His fingers were moving on autopilot now. At first he stripped his guns, cleaned them to the point where the could nearly see his own reflection, and put them back together. When that was finished, he moved to making his own ammunition. There was something soothing in the measuring of the powder, in the joining of the metal pieces. He could almost tune out the fine tremor in his hands.

Almost.

Whenever he stopped, he saw the vision in his mind's eye. The blood that stained the tree and grass around the body. The thicker things that he didn't want to think about sliding wetly from the leaves at his friend's side. And while he'd been trained as a field medic, seeing the inside of Jumper's head in such a way, it was just too much to cope with.

Sarge had given up attempting to reach him. They'd managed to make the emergency evac point, dragging the lifeless and dripping body of their team mate with them. The flies had begun buzzing around them, making it impossible to be completely quiet. No one bitched, thankfully, but he knew they blamed him.

Hell, _he_ blamed himself.

And why not? He'd been the asshole to take the gig. He'd been the self-righteous prick who had thought only of his own career. He knew, going on the mish, that they were going to encounter problems. Untested ordnance? Who the fuck puts their men into a situation like that? Oh right, he did. And now his best friend was being cremated and sent back home. He'd kept the tags, knowing that they were to go to the family. He'd been family, for fuck's sake. How many nights had he and Jumper gone and gotten shitfaced and picked up babes? How many mornings after had they endured a shitty hangover and too-greasy food so they could attempt to run PT and not get their asses handed to them?

He blinked, realizing that he'd stopped moving. That he'd been focused on the memories. His gaze slid away from where he'd been capping another shell and fell upon the framed photo of himself with Jumper. They were both smiling, though Jumper's smile was clearly the happier of the two. John didn't smile much. It wasn't that he wasn't happy, he just wasn't the smiling type. He was the broody one that contemplated the seriousness of the situation. Jumper had balanced that with his shit-eating grin. With his stupid jokes and quips that had kept John on his toes.

John loosed a soft breath and sat back in the chair. Tense muscles, sore from being in the same position for too long, reminded him that he hadn't moved in too many hours. His bladder reminded him, too. He knew he hadn't eaten, but the melancholy fog had settled over him to the point that food didn't even sound appealing. No, what he wanted to do was curl up in bed and pull the blanket over his head. Hide, as he had when he'd been nine. When he and Sam had been shuffled from one foster home to another and he couldn't make the nightmares stop.

He couldn't make them stop, now, either.

A hand, trembling worse now, settled over his face. Days like that, the nightmares blended together. The horrified look on his mother's face, when she realized that she couldn't shield young John from witnessing his parents' demise melted into the bleeding mass of Jumper's head. He'd kept Sam from seeing, protected her though she was older, but he'd seen too much. Endured too much. With a strangled, wounded sound, John shoved himself to his feet, ignoring the chair as it toppled over behind him. His breath came out ragged and unsteady. Both palms were pressed onto the table and he bowed his head, ignoring the ache in his lower back.

And while no sound escaped, his lips moved quickly. Chanting. It was the same as it always was. Stop it. Stop it. _Stopitstopitstopitstopit_... Stop it!

And as it always was, it didn't work. The shrink had suggested meditation, but John knew better than to think he could sit still long enough to quiet his mind. When he sat still, the demons from his past haunted him, tormenting him. Reminding him that he would fail everyone around him. He hadn't been able to save his parents. He hadn't been able to save Jumper. He couldn't save Sam, not when she'd willingly chosen to travel back to that godforsaken shithole of a planet. He still didn't understand that one. Why go back? Why would anyone want to see the place where they'd lost everything?

It wasn't working. If anything, he was getting worse. And he fucking hated pills. They'd tried to get him on some kind of medication regimen. But he'd shot that down. A zombie with a gun was just as dangerous as an unstable man with a gun. Not that he'd have to worry about that for much longer. He knew. He'd heard the whispers, heard the conversations between Sarge and SimCon. They were shitcanning his ass. He'd be discharged - probably dishonorably - and sent packing. The fact that his CO had pulled strings to avoid a hearing and charges had been a minor miracle. But he was through. He'd never serve his country again.

He'd probably never be able to get another job, either. Who wanted an unstable mess? Who wanted a weapon that could go off at any time?

Exhausted, he pushed away from the table and started for the door. The barracks were empty. The rest of the unit had probably gone out for PT. His footfalls echoed in the empty space and he looked around without actually seeing anything.

A shower would help. God knew he needed one. And a fucking haircut. He looked like a goddamned hippy compared to his team mates. Sleep would be nice, but John knew it wouldn't happen. He saw it all when he closed his eyes. His dreams were filled with blood and violence. He awoke screaming. Thankfully, Sarge had taken away his weapons. There would be no friendly fire. There would be no more casualties on his watch. John knew he just needed to go. Needed to get away. But he had nowhere left to go.

Slowly, he made his way to his footlocker and rummaged through it. Clean shorts, a clean BDU, and he was heading to the showers. Fuck it. Maybe he could pull himself back from the brink. He had to. There was no one else who could help him. He focused on that while he cleaned up. He focused on getting his shit back together when he found the scissors and gave himself a trim. It looked like hell, but he was no hairdresser. It was still too long. It was still out of regulation. But they were due leave in another day or so. Finally dried off and dressed, he made his way back to the little alcove and righted the chair.

Not far from where he'd been sitting was Jumper's pistol. His fingers trembled as they ran over the cold metal. Without really thinking, he grabbed it and sat down at the table. He'd clean it. One last time. He was working quietly when the others came back in. They were bitching, but not because of the PT. Seemed they'd gone out for the transport and it hadn't been around. That pulled him from his reverie. Glancing at the chrono and then the calendar, he realized just how far he'd been gone. They were being given leave. Not the next day. But that night.

Duke pulled him further from his own mind. "Where you headin' off to Reaps? Little armed combat?"

He glanced over, shoving down the surprise that they were finally speaking to him. Maybe they were forgiving him? He grunted noncommittally, and considered his answer. But it never came.

From the stairwell, he heard Sarge's voice.

"Listen up, men. We got ourselves a game."


	2. Post-Doom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So it's not a ficlet, but a series of one-shots. They're dark and angsty and don't really have happy endings. What did you expect?

The condensation on the mirror obscured his image. But when he raised his arm to wipe away the haze on the glass, instead of wiping the glass clean, all he managed to do was dirty it further. Blood smeared with the water on the glass, giving him an even more distorted picture. It didn't help that there was blood spattered on his face and down his neck.

John looked like a madman.

He snuffled softly, grimacing at the reflection. Sam would have his ass if she caught him. And speaking of...

"John, is that you in there?"

_Who else would it be?_ He wanted to ask. But he held his tongue. The bloody arm that had wiped away at the mirror dropped to grip the side of the sink and he side-eyed the door heavily.

_Don't open the door, Sam. Don't open...Shit._

The door was opening and John silently kicked himself for not having locked it. His sister stopped in the doorway and just stared.

"Jesus, John.." She breathed, eyes widening. Her hand fluttered at her throat, looking like a bird desperate to escape its cage.

"It's not all mine." He grunted, turning away. It was bullshit and they both knew it. Especially since, in his hand, was the straight razor. The bloody straight razor.

"John.." Her tone was defeated. She looked like she wanted to reach out to him, but stopped herself. They should have patched things up, should have had a unified front following Olduvai. But they'd escaped from one another. John had retreated further and further into his own mind, into his own self-made hell. And Sam? He didn't know anymore. He hadn't known her for more than a decade. Being forced to go undercover hadn't done anything to change that.

"I had to know." He was staring at the bloody metal, not looking at her. He couldn't look at her and see that horrified expression that looked so much like their mother's. He couldn't see that face again. "I had to know for sure."

"And what did you discover?" Her voice sounded flat, empty.

"I healed too quickly to bleed out."

"Do you really want to die, John? After everything, you really want to just end it all? Are you really going to be that fucking selfish?"

He turned, expression darkening. "Don't fucking talk to me about being selfish, Sam. I didn't go back up there to willingly. I didn't go back up there, knowing.."

She blew out a frustrated breath and rolled her eyes. "Don't make this out like you're some goddamned martyr, John Grimm. You went because it was your job."

"Bullshit!" He shouted, turning fully to face her. He knew it gave her the full view of what he'd attempted to do to himself. Blood covered both of his forearms. His healed forearms. "I went because I knew you were still there. There was a problem and I sure as shit was not going to leave you to suffer. Not if I could help."

She flinched, just as he expected she would. "You didn't have to go."

"Neither did you. Did it make you feel better? Going and working where they died?"

"This wasn't about them!" She countered.

"Wasn't it? You picked right back up where they left off."

"I didn't, John. I couldn't."

"No, you were a fucking assistant, weren't you? Secretary? Minion? Whatever the fuck you wanna call it. You weren't a scientist any more than I would have been."

"You would've been better than me."

It was John's turn to look away again. "You know I couldn't do that. Not after.."

"I know. John," She gestured again to his arms, expression a little more empathetic. "I know you're hurting. I know you want the pain to stop."

"You have no idea what I'm going through." He growled.

"Then tell me."

His eyes landed on everything but her. He couldn't tell her. Couldn't leave that much guilt with another person. It was too much for him to bear. Too much for a single human to have to handle. But he wasn't going to inflict it on anyone else.

"John." She took a step forward, causing him to take an involuntary step back. The razor dropped into the sink, and blood spattered the already messy surface.

"I don't need help."

"No, of course not. The almighty, untouchable John Grimm doesn't need anyone, right? You're just going to become Atlas and take on the weight of the entire universe on your shoulders. You're still human John."

"You don't know that." He interrupted, jaw clenched.

"You're still you," she continued, as though he hadn't spoken. "I trusted it when I gave you the serum. I trust it now. You didn't become a monster. You didn't mutate."

"Maybe I'm not a monster, but I've done so much. Seen too much."

"Then maybe you need someone to help shoulder the burden. Remember when you used to crawl into bed and snuggle after we got back to Earth?"

He rolled his eyes and snorted. "I'm a little old for that, Sam."

She mimicked the motion and gave him a slightly exasperated look. "That wasn't what I meant, dumbass. I meant you talked to me. Told me what was going on. I helped. I can help again. I don't want to see you doing this. What else have you tried?"

He swallowed audibly, gaze dropping. "Few things. I just.. I needed to know."

"I know you're not sleeping, John."

"I can't."

"You're not eating."

He heaved another sigh. "I know, mom."

"Don't. John, just don't. I can't even beging to imagine what you're going through. But I'm here now. Please. Don't shut me out."

But that was the easy part. Shutting her out, just as he shut out the rest of the world. That was the easy part. It was turning it around and allowing her to understand what it was he was facing.

"Sam.."

"Wait." She said, turning to grab a washcloth. Ignoring the bloody mess he'd left in the bathroom, she wetted it and began wiping down his arms. The rest she'd leave to him, but seeing so much blood on her brother's arms was making her queasy.

He accepted it, stood patiently while she washed away the evidence that he'd attempted to do the unthinkable. He'd clean the bathroom after.

"My flak vest." He grunted, though he didn't make any motions toward it.

"What about it?"

"I have Jumper's, Destroyer's, Goat's and Portman's tags in one of the pockets." It was a start. "I couldn't get the others."

"I know."

"No, you don't. I carry them because I can't let myself forget. I failed them, Sam. I failed them all."

"How? You had no control over Destroyer, Goat or Portman."

_Because everything I touch turns to shit_ , he wanted to say. Instead, he opted for silence.

"John." She was pleading again. He hated the desperation in her tone.

"Stop. It's my fault. Just like it was my fault with Jumper." And while he couldn't quite pin the death of their parents on himself, he tried. "If I hadn't asked to go on the walk, they'd still be alive, you know."

"I'm calling bullshit now, John." Sam chastised. "That's not true. You and I both know they were going out with or without us."

It had been their time, that was the only thing that allowed Sam to sleep at night. That, and she hadn't actually seen them crushed under the tons of rock. John had. It had been the start of his downfall.

"Promise me something, John." She didn't wait for him to answer. "Promise me you won't do this again. Don't try to leave me. You saved me. You didn't fail me. I'm alive because of you. So you're not..." She shook her head, trying to understand his mindset. "You're not bad. You're not like them." Like Sarge. Like Carmack.

"I'm not a fucking victim, either." He groused.

"No, you're not. But if you don't pull your head out of your ass, soldier, you will be."

"Don't call me that."

"What, Soldier? You are."

John rolled his eyes. No longer military or not, he wouldn't let her get away with that. "We don't call each other soldier. It's men. Or Marines. Soldier is for the Army." Or the Chair Force. Something other than what he'd been.

Sam humored him for a moment. "Fine. Get your act together, Marine. That's an order."

There was something hardwired inside of John that reacted to the command. He flinched and chewed at his lip, before finally nodding. "Fine."

"I catch you trying to do this again, I will kick your ass. Enhancements or not, I'm your big sister. I'll kick your ass."

Funny thing was, John could actually believe that.


	3. Chapter 3

The garden was Sam's idea. 

Months of being on the run, of sleeping in shitty, rodent (and god only knew what else) infested motels, they finally found what they were looking for. A cabin at the base of the Smokies. It was just outside the park, and cheap enough that both could work under the table at one of the tourist trap stores and still make ends meet. There was no electricity. There was no running water. They had a fucking outhouse.

John had actually laughed when he saw it. That had been what prompted Sam to talk to the owner. That laugh. Seeing the absolutely incredulous look on her brother's face at the fact that they were living in what amounted to little more than a shack. 

"You want me to shit in an outhouse." He'd deadpanned, giving her a look. But there was wry amusement on his face. 

"I want you to relax and quit looking over your shoulder." She shot back. He protected her. He watched over her and kept them both safe. But Sam was tired of watching her brother run himself to the very ends of his sanity, pausing only when he stood right at the edge.

She'd lost count of the times she'd pulled him back. He could go longer without sleep, now. He could function like a normal human being even when he'd been awake for two weeks straight. His sanity, however, was another story. She knew he was dangerously paranoid. The move had been the last straw. He'd been watching out the window while she slept, at the last motel, and when she'd awoken, he'd been talking to himself.

He'd been sure they were being followed and watched.

Whether or not it was true, was another story. She didn't want to call him a liar, but she saw nothing. And maybe it was his training, but she knew he wasn't sleeping. She knew he was forcing himself to become a one-man army to protect her from UAC. From the memories.

John rolled his eyes, but he didn't write off the place. If anything, he began scouting around. "Place is pretty solid. Foundation's good. Ground's good."

"Good." She interrupted. "Dig a garden."

He stopped, both brows furrowing. "A garden. You want me to dig a garden?"

"Yeah. We need to eat, right? You want to take care of me? Dig a garden. I want fresh veggies this fall."

His eyes narrowed and she knew he saw right through her words. But the fight just wasn't there. He'd stopped fighting her. He might not have given up the general fight, but where she was concerned, he just didn't have it within him. It was a small victory, in Sam's book. But it was better than nothing. "Fine." He said, turning back to their new home. "You know there's no running water, right?"

Sam waved an imperious hand. "I know. And here you are, the big, tough, enhanced Marine. You get to carry water in so we can eat and bathe."

"Is that why you picked this place? So you could make me your workhorse?"

Sam laughed at that. "Nope. I picked this place because it was near the mountains. You loved the Cove, figured this would be a nice place to come and hide. There's no cell signal and we're not able to get any sort of satellite or cable here."

"Great." John huffed, not even bothering to hide the sarcasm. "So not only do I not get to watch any of the games, but I can't even watch TV."

"No electricity, genius."

"Jesus on a fucking pogo stick, Sam, are you trying to turn me into a goddamned caveman?"

"Nope. We're going to live off the land, and then go into Gatlinburg and work."

"And, what, you don't think someone'll recognize us?"

She leveled a look at him. "I think we're going to be too busy here to worry about that. This place is cheap enough we really don't need to do much. And if we can sell what you grow, that's even more money."

"I refuse to become Amish, Sam. Not that I got anything against 'em, but I like my porn."

"Did not need to know that."

John rolled his eyes and knocked on the porch railing. It was actually pretty sturdy. Oddly, the entire house was. He'd expected some ramshackle shithole complete with ominous banjo music from the woods. Instead, what he had was the surprisingly calming sound of the crickets and cicadas, and the smell of pine from the trees. Sighing, defeated, John turned to look at Sam. And immediately regretted it. She was wearing that stupidly superior look on her face. She knew she'd won. 

"Shall we start unpacking?"

"You can get your own goddamned water." He grumbled, starting for the truck.

~~

It took him exactly three weeks to settle into a routine. And then two more before Sam began chasing him out of the house to clean off before coming in. The garden became all-consuming. He'd spend hours weeding, tilling, planting and just working with the earth.

And setting traps to keep vermin away. Fucking gophers. He actually considered starting a war with the furry, little menaces. Between them and the birds, he had his hands full keeping his garden alive and prospering. But when he saw the first blooms, and could actually see the fruits of his labor, it made it all worthwhile.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is fleeting. Complacency is a bitch. Don't get comfortable, because maybe they really are after you...

Complacency was a bitch. It lulled one into a false sense of security, allowing for mistakes to happen. It let one believe they were safe, when nothing could have been further from the truth. John found this to be a harsh truth to comprehend. Because while he was a genius, there were days when he was truly dumber than a stump.

The cabin had become everything to the former Marine. He let Sam do the bulk of the traveling and getting of things, unsure just how safe it would be to venture into town. Even holding a regular job was too much to comprehend after what he'd been through. The idea of being forced to do menial tasks for shitty tourists made him twitch and seethe. He'd served his country, helped topple governments, and witnessed colonization on another planet, for fuck's sake. Why the fuck would he care whether or not some fucking snow globe that showed some fucking landmark was out of stock?

He'd managed to hold a job for all of three days before he had to tell the pimple-covered, just-barely-post-adolescent manager to stick the job where the sun didn't shine.

And after that, Sam didn't ask him about working outside of their new home. She knew better. He was a ticking time bomb. John was dangerous. And had he been anything other than what he was, she might have suggested psychological help. But she'd heard all about the regression therapy techniques that SimCon was so fucking proud of. And she saw the aftermath in the nightmares and days where her brother refused to sleep.

There were good days, and there were bad days. The good days, she could almost see the return of her brother. A fleeting smile, a wry quip; it was almost as if she could glimpse the man he had been before it all went to shit. The bad days were full of silence and brooding. Being forced to watch the former Marine glare sullenly out the windows, arms crossed over his chest. Sometimes he'd mutter to himself. Most times, he was just silent.

That silence unnerved her.

And sometimes, when it seemed like the silence was too much, she'd come home and find bloody holes in and around the garden. At first, she'd considered the idea that they'd been found. But it became apparent that her brother was waging a one-man war on the local vermin population. He'd sit with his assorted detonators and wait. And wait. And then something would trigger one of his traps, and explode. She didn't even want to think about the small thumps that hit the outer wall of the cabin. Or cleaning it up. Shuddering in revulsion, Sam tucked her earbuds in, and turned the volume up on her music player.

PETA would have a field day with John if they ever found out.

The worst was when she came home from working the shitty, dead-end job, and discovered her brother was nowhere to be found. The house was cleaned to his exacting degree, and it was obvious he hadn't been around for several hours. Scared out of her mind, Sam paced the house, then the porch, then the yard, calling his name. He couldn't have gone far, not with the paranoia of being found. Her brother was deeply paranoid and more than a little unhinged when it came to being discovered by UAC or SimCon.

It wasn't until she nearly tripped over the man that she realized just how far he was gone. Dressed in full Ghillie Suit, complete with face paint, John had taken up a strategic spot overlooking the cabin. He was utterly undetectable. Until she stepped on him, anyway. Shifting, the former Marine rolled over and glared at his sister.

"You're going to give away my location."

"John, the sun is setting. How long have you been out here?"

He blinked and then glanced skyward. "Since just after breakfast."

"You've been out here for..." She wasn't sure what time breakfast had been for him.

"About ten hours." He finished, before rolling back over. "I heard something in the woods this morning. They're coming."

"Who?" But she knew. She wasn't sure she believed, but she knew.

"You know goddamned well who." He grunted, readjusting and aiming his rifle. Even it was covered in moss and leaves. She hadn't even seen it.

" _John_ ," she started, sounding tired. "We've been here for months. It's been quiet."

"Quiet doesn't mean they're not looking, Sam. You know that."

She shut her eyes and breathed slowly through her nose. Counting silently to ten, she fought to keep from speaking her mind. When it came to the topic of their shared past and pain, she walked on egg shells.

"I know what you're thinking, Sam. And you're wrong." He glanced back up at her, expression unreadable.

"John.." She began, and stopped. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something moving. Quickly.

He motioned her down, having seen it too. Ducking down next to her battle-ready brother, Sam watched in horror as two black-clad para-military types stepped from the edge of the forest. They were across the clearing, but that didn't mean the pair was safe. Sam tensed.

" _Told you_." He whispered.

She bit back the urge to retort. Now wasn't the time for 'told you so.' Now was the time to pack and get the hell out.

"Might wanna stay down. I rigged the cabin this morning before I came out here."

"You _what_?" She hissed, eyes widening. All of their stuff was inside.

John rolled his eyes, though he didn't turn his attention away from the intruders. "I packed up our shit. It's in the truck. I moved it."

"Oh.." _Oh_. So he'd really thought it all out. "So how do you plan on..?"

She didn't get to finish the question. There was a sudden flash, followed by a rather impressive explosion from the cabin. The twins flattened themselves against the ground, to avoid flying debris. And in that moment, chaos and hell took over. The remaining para-military team came flooding out from the woods on the other side of the clearing. How she had missed them, and how they'd missed her, she didn't know. She certainly hadn't bothered to hide her presence.

"How..?" She asked, slowly lifting herself up.

"They weren't looking for you, Sam." He grunted, before slowly pushing himself up. Mindful of their surroundings, he hefted his rifle and tugged her along, staying within the treeline. "I'm surprised they didn't use you to find me, but they weren't looking for you. And they were probably looking to lure me in, without force."

Which meant John had forced their hand. They'd pursue now, because he'd taken the violent route. Sam would have to keep a closer eye on her brother.

"You could have done this peacefully."

He didn't even glance at her, as they moved through the forest. " _Peacefully_. And spend the rest of my unnatural life on a fucking gurney while they cut me apart like a lab rat? No, thank you."

"That wasn't what I meant, John."

"No, but that's what they'd do. Clearly, they've figured out that we lied." And now they knew he was dangerous. "They won't be as nice the next time."

He stopped at the edge of the copse of trees, eyes sharp. Not far lay the truck. "They're probably watching the truck. When we move, we're gonna need to do it fast." He sniffed once, glancing around. All that paranoia was finally paying off.

"What if I gave them a distraction?" She offered. That stopped him cold, and he turned to look at her.

"If you offer yourself up, they'll take you in and use you as bait to bring me in. You know that as well as I do."

Sam's jaw tensed and she glared up at her brother. "We have to do _something_. You know damned well they'll shoot first and ask questions later if we make for the truck."

He nodded. "I was counting on it. Was gonna use me as a shield, get you into the truck and then jump in the back while you drive."

"You think it'll work?"

John shrugged and chewed on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. "Long as they don't get a headshot, we'll be in good shape. I'll heal." It'd hurt like a bitch, but it was the only sane option. It would be stupidity on the part of the team to take him out permanently. While they could still use his blood, a dead super soldier was essentially useless. "It's the only chance we have. Keys are in the ignition. It's unlocked."

"John, what if they rigged the truck while you weren't looking?"

He stopped and gave her a look. "You think they'd want me dead? Sam, they need me alive. They need to see how I tick. See why C24 bonded with me and not the others." It was a question he'd been postulating for months, himself. Why him? Why not the others? 

She nodded, looking worried.

"On three." He shouldered the rifle and stepped closer.

Sam shut her eyes and silently readied herself to run faster than she'd ever run before.

" _One_..." He inhaled softly through his nose, eyes flinty.

" _Two_..." She opened her eyes and exhaled through her mouth, hands clenched.

" _Three_!" As one, they bolted for the truck. An explosion of gunfire followed them across the small clearing. "Open the door and get inside, get it going and get moving! I'll get in the back!"

It was obvious, as they ran, that several of the bullets hit their target. He grunted as they ran, stumbling a little. "Keep.. _going_."

And then they were at the side of the truck. John practically ripped the door off its hinges getting it open so he could shove Sam inside. She barely had her feet clear of the side rails when he slammed it shut behind her. Glass shattered over her head and she screamed, scrambling across the bench seat to the driver's side. Gunning the engine, she stayed low and dropped it into gear, thankful John had taken the time to show her how to drive stick.

"Please be in the back," she prayed as she slammed her foot down on the accelerator. The truck's tires spun for a painful few seconds before they caught in the loamy earth. And then the truck was moving. If John wasn't in the back, they were both screwed. Because she'd stop. But she couldn't look. She couldn't take that chance. Maneuvering through the rocky, dirt terrain, Sam sped through the early evening twilight, thankful that they'd had months to get used to the layout of their driveway.

Only when she was clear of the gunfire did she glance in the mirror and then over her shoulder.

And laying, panting softly, in the bed of the truck, was her brother. She couldn't see if he was bleeding, that would come when they could finally stop. The moon cut through the branches, helping to illuminate the road ahead of her. She couldn't focus much on her brother, and she couldn't stop. Not for a while now. Glancing down, she realized just how well-prepared John had been for this flight. A full tank. Everything was packed, and he'd filled the truck's gas tank. She'd been living under the assumption that they were hidden and safe. That they were out of the woods, so to speak. She'd been lulled into that false sense of security. She'd been blinded by routine and habit.

And she'd assumed John was just fucking nuts.

The truck finally met asphalt, and she did what she could to blend into traffic around them. It was a little harder, given what was in the back. But John didn't move. He remained out of sight. She didn't want to think about what that meant. Sure, he could heal, but she knew he'd taken several hits on the way out. How much blood could he lose before it was too much?

She wouldn't think of the bathroom incident.

Eventually, she guided the truck toward the highway, and headed west. Maybe they'd have better luck in the Rockies? The Smokies had been good to them for a few months, but Sam had the feeling that this would be a regular occurrence. SimCon wanted their property back. They wanted John. And with fingers tight on the wheel, she knew she'd die before ever allowing that to happen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To the west, is it safer? Is it a trap?

It wasn't the fact that he'd managed to get blood everywhere, that disturbed her. It was the idea that he'd been stuck laying in his own pool of blood, even after he healed, for several hours that made Sam cringe.

There was no way she could take him anywhere public looking like a wartime refugee. The Ghillie suit was ripped and bloody, and the smudged face paint was mixed with blood and dirt.

John was a fucking mess.

But he was alive.

There was a rest stop just off the highway, with enough lights to give them a vague sense of where they were. Sam pulled into the parking lot and cut the engine, sitting quietly and staring off into space.

She startled badly when John knocked on the driver's side window.

"Don't do that!" She chastised, opening the door. And stopped cold. "You cannot go in there looking like that."

"Yeah, because I can strip down here in the parking lot and wander in naked. I'm sure any random trucker is gonna love that."

That he could joke so soon after the attack at the cabin was mind-boggling, but Sam saw through it. There was a wildness to his eyes, a ready-to-snap look.

John was close to losing it.

"Just.. let me come with you." She held up a hand when John opened his mouth. "To the door, dumbass. I don't mean in the bathroom. Make sure we're okay and then you can go in and clean up."

John shut his mouth and nodded, turning to rummage through what he'd packed in the back of the truck. One of the suitcases was his. A pair of shorts, a shirt, jeans and socks, and he was ready to go clean up.

"You're.. okay?" She was still watching him carefully.

"I'm fine, Sam." Physically, anyway. Jury was still out on his psychological standpoint. But a quick clean-up, a change of clothes, and John would be able to pass for someone with a modicum of sanity.

~~

Colorado

They found a shitty, back-end, by-the-week motel outside of Denver and made it their own. The fact that they were stuck sleeping in the same room was something the twins glossed over.

It was reminiscent of Olduvai. And of the foster homes. How many nights had John reached out, across the space between the beds, for Sam's hand? And how many nights had she caught his hand in hers and held him when the nightmares threatened to overwhelm him?

He wouldn't reach out anymore, of course. Not like that. But he had begun to be better about sharing his mental stumblings with her. After the cabin, John had found a sort of semi-peace within himself. It was shattered, of course, thanks to SimCon. But he'd found it once, and she was fairly certain he could learn to find it again.

There was no talk of his working when they got settled. Sam took the combination of their genius and faked papers so she could work at a local clinic. It wasn't her forte, and she wasn't great at it, but it paid the weekly rent at the motel and kept them in food.

And John in beer.

That was the first time Sam truly grasped the multitude of levels of problems her brother faced. Alcoholism was yet another. The former Marine could no longer get drunk, thankfully, and his liver would heal itself after a bit of binge drinking, but it was obvious John had a problem.

He was drinking beer for breakfast.

And lunch.

And before bed.

He still had his coffee, of course. Sam always made sure there was a full pot of coffee brewing before she left for her shift. The hope was there that he would choose that over the beer, but she knew better.

And really, what could she say? It wasn't like he would ever get so bad that he needed help. His body healed too quickly. It didn't stop her from making comments, though.

"Breakfast, John? Really?"

He blinked at her over the lip of the bottle. "I can't get drunk, Sam. I've tried."

"You also tried to slit your wrists and down a bottle of pills with vodka."

He deadpanned, bottle lowering. "That was different."

"Is it?" She persisted, gesturing to the bottle. "Is it really? You're drinking all day, John. I know you can't get drunk, but that's not the point."

"Then what is?" He sat back, expression souring.

"You have a problem."

John snorted derisively and rolled his eyes. "Newsflash, I have a lot of problems. Ninety percent of them are psychological. I'm a fucking headcase, Sam. Even I know that. I mean, they were talking psychotropic drugs before everything went to shit. The regression therapy wasn't helping."

"So drinking is?"

"Would you rather I drink here? Or at the bar? 'Cause I saw a strip club not far from here." It was that kind of neighborhood. "The girls around here are a helluva lot prettier than the ones off-base."

"You've already been to the strip club." Not a question. And not really a surprise, all things considered. John was attempting to pass as a normal, red-blooded male.

"Been and had a lapdance. Could probably have gotten laid, too."

"But you didn't."

John blew out a breath and stood up, brushing past her to peek out the window. "Had Miss Cherry Blossom writhing in my lap and I realized that I'd probably hurt her, badly, if we fucked."

"Okay, _whoa_ ," Sam's hands both came up and she shut her eyes, as if to stave off the mental image. "That is way too much TMI, John. Jesus. You could just have said you had second thoughts."

When he turned back, there was that wry amusement in his face. "You're up to your armpits in dead bodies and people who have shitty diseases and my sex life, or lack thereof, is what grosses you out?"

Sam rolled her eyes and leaned back against the vanity that took up one of the walls. "You're my brother, John. Anything you do with another human being grosses me out."

The amusement deepened a little and John actually favored her with a ghost of a grin. "She did have these awesome, gravity-defying tits." He held his hands out in front of his chest, miming said amazing breasts.

She groaned dramatically and pinched the bridge of her nose. "You are such a goddamned caveman, John."

"You swear like one."

"That's because the only conversational partner I have is you."

"You saying no one at work wants to talk to you?"

"They're all dead, remember? Or comatose. Or too sick to be chatty."

"So I'm the most interesting person you see all day?"

"Don't get cocky, dumbass." Sam snorted. "There was a guy who had a rather raunchy case of gonorrhea and testicles swollen like grapefruit. That was pretty interesting."

The grin faltered and John wrinkled his nose. "That's sick. Only you would find it fun to go poking at some dead dude's swollen balls."

"Just saying. You're not the most interesting thing that happens to me all day. You just give me the worst headaches."

"That's just 'cause you love me."

"Except the days I want to beat you with my shoe."

"You done bein' my mom, Sam? 'Cause I'm a big boy. I can drink when I want to. I'm not going to get drunk. I'm not going to die. I just need to do something because I've read all our books and I can't get online." John hedged a little. "I might have watched all the porn the motel will let me watch, too."

"Is that why our weekly bill was higher this week?"

"I have needs."

"I'm sure you do. I don't need details." The hand was up again, in case John felt the need to discuss those needs in detail.

"It's not like it was." He shrugged, before flopping onto his bed. She knew what he meant. The cabin. Sure, now there was electricity and heat, and running water. And a shower, that John would spend an hour in. It made it almost necessary for Sam to be up before her brother. But there was a lack of freedom. There was a lack of space. There was just a general _lack_. And it was clear John was chafing a little at the bit.

"I know. I've been looking."

He shifted, regarding her upside down. "You mean another caveman cabin? We're in the Rockies, Sam. Winter. _Snow_. It gets cold. I dunno about you, but I don't feel like freezing my dangly bits off while I chop wood. In snow up to my ass."

"I'm looking for more modern places, asshole." She countered.

"So, like," John waved a hand, prompting her.

"Like a place where you can set up shop again. Garden when it warms up. Away from prying eyes." And strip clubs. Sam didn't like the look that had crossed his face when he realized he couldn't actually indulge in the carnal with another person. Disturbing as it was to think of her brother getting it on with someone, he deserved to be happy.

John shut his eyes and huffed humorlessly. "We'll never find peace, Sam. They'll never stop. Long as I'm out there, they'll keep hunting me." And, by proxy, her. She was in danger because of him.

"You don't know that."

"You thought we were safe in Tennessee."

Point taken. Sam wisely kept quiet.

"Eventually, they'll come. Just like they always do. And we'll have to run again." Pain flickered across his face, but he didn't open his eyes. "Unless we go our own way."

"You mean separate?"

"I mean you assume another identity and become someone else. Away from me."

"You can't mean that, John." He couldn't. Surely, he had to understand that they were safer together. Sure, it looked weird to anyone not them, but it worked. She kept him sane. Who would keep him sane if he was alone?

"I can." He still wasn't looking at her. "You'd be safer if they weren't hunting you. And we both know they just want me."

"That's bullshit and you know it. I knew what was going on up there. I know what C24 does. What it is." She was a scientist, for christ's sake. She'd sussed out what Carmack and his crew had been up to, what they'd uncovered.

_And she still had the data files._

If John knew that she had them, and continued to study them, he'd lose it. So she'd kept it quiet, studying on her own and learning the secrets of the alien chromosome. Learning about her brother and what he'd become. Was he ready to learn and understand that he was no longer wholly human? All of humanity was technically extraterresterial. But John was closer to those origins now than anyone living could claim. He straddled that very fine line between humanity and _other_.

And it gave her hope.

But Sam understood his fear, too. He was a weapon. He'd been made a weapon by the military, and perfected by xenogenesis. Not for the first time, Sam wished she could drag her reticent brother into a lab and actually study him. But as paranoid as he was, she knew it was something that would never happen. Not willingly, anyway.

"I still say it's the best option." He said, breaking the stretching silence between them.

"And I still say you're full of shit. You just want to drink and watch porn and ogle strippers without me judging you." She quipped. "Besides, if I change my identity, why can't you change yours?"

John finally opened his eyes, craning his head to regard her. "Is that what you think? You honestly believe that that would be all I did?" He pointedly ignored the question.

Sam shrugged a shoulder, half-thankful for the change in direction in their conversation. "That's all you do now, why would you change it?"

Touche. John conceded the point and rolled so he could lay on his side. "We'll stick it out. For now. But you have a chance at normalcy, Sam. At a life outside of this. Don't let me hold you back. We both know it won't matter if I change my name."


	6. Chapter 6

It was the bathroom all over again. Bloody handprints decorated the walls, more than one bloody hole complemented the macabre decorations. And, sitting in the bathtub, wearing little more than a pair of bloody jeans was John. He reeked of alcohol, and there were broken shards of various bottles littered around the bathroom and inside the bathtub with him.

"John!" Sam stopped at the door, looking like she was about to finally crack. How many times could she stand by on the sidelines to watch her brother attempt to self-destruct.

"I can't get drunk." He said despondently, staring at his hands. They'd healed, but she could see glass like macabre glitter on the flesh. Blood streaked his knuckles, and up over his wrists. "I can't get laid. I can't hold a fucking job. I can't do a goddamned thing."

"Oh, John," She said, stepping gingerly over the mess of glass and liquid. Judging by the smell, it was alcohol. She hoped it was alcohol. "You knew there were going to be differences..."

"Differences?" He stopped staring at his hands to look up at her. His expression faltered. It was as if he couldn't decide whether he wanted to be incredulous or pissed. " _Differences_ , Sam? I'm a fucking freak of nature. I can't get drunk. I can't get laid. I can't do a goddamned thing without losing my fucking mind. I haven't slept in - "

"Days? Weeks? John, I know. I hear you pacing at night. Talking. You're as bad as you were when we first left the facility."

"Worse." He grunted, head thumping back against the wall. "I hate fucking everything. Everything I touch turns to shit."

"That's bullshit, and you know it, John."

He sighed and met her gaze, his own lost. "I don't know how to do this, Sam. I don't know how to make it work. Nothing makes sense out here. Nothing is the way it was."

She shook her head. "I don't understand. What do you mean, 'out here'?"

"Out of the military. Sarge gave orders. I took 'em. Base Command gave him the orders. SimCon gave Base Command orders. It was a string of command. It was order. It was good." Pain flickered across his face. "I can't do this. It's chaos. It's anarchy. We're just running and running and there's no end." John finally broke and put his hands over his face. No tears, he didn't cry. But he groaned, a broken sound. "There's never gonna be an end. It's never gonna stop."

"John. John!" Sam had reached the tub, and had brushed away some of the glass so she could settle on the lip. She reached across and shook his shoulder, fighting for the upper hand. He needed to get this out, though. He needed to get through it.

Eyes wild and full of unnameable things finally settled on her.

"If you need to get it out, we can go someplace where you can. But we can't do that here." As it was, the damage he'd done would be enough to negate their weekly rent. She'd have to clean up the blood, lest the police take samples and see differences. They did not need that sort of publicity.

" _Where_?" His voice was rough, raw. Desperate.

"Up in the mountains. Someplace where you can scream at the heavens and freak out the local wildlife and not get arrested for disturbing the peace."

A humorless huff escaped him. "You think screaming at local wildlife won't get me in trouble?" John visibly deflated. "We both know there's nowhere I can go that'd be good for something like that. The rage inside.."

"Rage. But not murder. You're still not like them." She caught his hand in her two smaller, and lifted it up. Turning it over, examining the digits. "You're still you, John. You're not a monster."

"But I'm not human." He said flatly.

Sam's head snapped up and she stared at him, eyes widening. He could almost smell the guilt roiling off of her. Like a cheap, shitty perfume.

"You knew." He confirmed.

"I.. had an idea." She hedged, eyes darting away.

John caught her chin with his free hand and leaned in, his eyes narrowing. "You're _lying_. Sam, I'm your brother. I've always been able to tell when you're lying. You _knew_. How long have you known?"

She swallowed, but his grip was like a vise, holding her tight. "Tennessee."

"How?"

Caught. "I've been studying you. The serum."

"Sam, we left that shit at the facility. I torched it myself. Nothing came with us, we didn't want to take the chance of them finding it on us."

Sam flinched. "That's not exactly true."

" _Fuck_." He let her go suddenly and moved away. His movements nearly sent her sprawling to the floor. She caught herself on the wall and bit back the yelp of pain when her shoulder blade hit the tile. When she spoke, her voice shook a little.

"John, this was something that I needed to know more about. You're the only one of your kind. There is no one in the universe like you."

John rolled his eyes and started to push himself out of the tub. Slick with blood and alcohol, it took him several tries before he could stand. It was uncoordinated and ungraceful, the antithesis of everything he was. And when he was finally standing, there was more blood to join what had already been there. He stopped to stare at his hands, before turning them to her. Proving that he'd already healed what he'd lost in the tub. He turned away, pacing a little.

"I'm a fucking science experiment, Sam. But I'm your brother. I expected more from you."

"I'm a scientist, John. I needed to understand you better so I could help you."

"Help." He turned, glaring at her from the sink, before he focused on the mirror and pointed at his reflection. "Look at me, Sam. Look at what I've become. I was a fucking headcase before all this started. And now? Now I'm a weapon. A broken, fucking weapon."

"You're not broken, John."

"I am. And you know it." He gripped the lip of the sink and hunched over it. Deja vu settled in and he shivered. No straight razor. No stupid attempts. This was simple and rage-fueled. "I just want to be useful again. Normal. _Right_."

"John, you're keeping me safe. That's more than useful."

"But I'm not normal. I'm not right." He tapped his head, and side-eyed her. "And because I'm FUBAR, we have to fucking move again."

"FUBAR?"

"Fucked up beyond all recognition." He deadpanned, before cranking on the faucet to wash his hands. Blood and glass mixed with the alcohol in the sink and washed down. It scraped like sandpaper over his flesh, and he could see it heal again even as the glass tore at his flesh. He watched it dispassionately, before grabbing a washcloth and slowly wetting it. He'd clean. He'd clean up his mess and then pack their shit.

"Got any idea where we'll go? Since I lost my fucking shit and probably scared the fuck out of the neighbors."

"You mean Carlos and his hookers? I saw them when I came in. I doubt you did anything they wouldn't have done." Sam huffed, standing slowly and carefully. She didn't want to slip on the alcohol and wind up impaling herself on glass. "And probably have done."

"Yeah, because he randomly freaks the fuck out and breaks shit."

Sam stood slowly, leaning against the tile wall. "He has. I've heard him. Maryanne told me he's a loose cannon."

John chose to ignore that, knowing that comparing himself to a pimp was probably not a good direction his brain needed to go.

He wasn't better, she knew that. But he was leveling out. He was being rational. The worst of the storm had passed, this time. But how soon 'til the next one? How soon 'til she had to go chasing him into the woods while he screamed about the nightmare things coming after him? She'd done that, and would probably do it again. The idea that he should probably have been institutionalized had crossed her mind more than once. But he was stronger than any human on the planet. He didn't require the same amount of sleep. Sam knew John wouldn't willingly check himself in anywhere.

Still, it was an idea. Far-fetched and preposterous, but an idea, nonetheless.

"Doesn't matter, anyway." He grunted, wiping at the blood and alcohol. He began chasing after the bloody handprints, the bloody holes. They couldn't be patched, but he could at least make it not look like a crime scene.

And, hey, he was cleaning. That was good, right? Sam watched him for a moment before she reached for a larger towel to scoop up the glass on the bathroom floor and out of the tub. "It always matters, John."

"To who, you?" He paused and glanced at her, hunched on the floor. Cleaning his mess. He flinched at the thought. She always seemed to be cleaning up his messes. "Don't do that."

Sam stopped and looked up at him. "Don't do what?"

"Clean. Let me. I fucked up. It's my mess."

"You don't have to do it alone, okay? I don't mind. Let me help you."

John blew out a soft, frustrated breath. "You're always helping me. And what have I done to help you? I spend your money on shit we don't need and then lose my mind like a goddamned nutcase. I keep telling you you'd be better off without me."

"And I keep telling you you're full of shit and we need each other. They're looking for me too, John." Sam shook out the towel, listening to the tinkling of the glass as it settled into the puddle of alcohol that the towel hadn't soaked up. "I was there. I'm a survivor just like you. Just because I'm not superhuman doesn't mean I don't know things."

She knew more than she was telling him, that was for sure. "You have the discs, don't you?"

She wouldn't look at him, which answered his question. "I couldn't just let all that information be destroyed. Not when it might help answer questions about you."

John groaned softly and leaned back against the wall. "If they find it you know they'll use it. Try to clone the serum, try to make super soldiers. And it'll be hell on earth. You thought Olduvai was hell? It'll be a fucking field day compared to this."

Sam knew. But the scientist in her wouldn't allow the destruction of something so massive. Especially when it held the clues to her brother's changes. "I know, John. But you have to understand.."

"No, I really don't. Like Sarge said, we weren't paid to think. Just to do our job."

"Then _think_ , god damn it." She growled, finally getting a little angry. Sam stood and pointed at him. "You're unique. Special. Different. Why wouldn't I want to better understand that? When you lose your shit, I need to have a grasp on what I can do to help you."

John huffed, but it was humorless. "That has nothing to do with the serum and everything to do with my fucked up head. PTSD, Sam. Did you know Jumper died because of me? Because I was a selfish asshole? I wanted my own fucking unit. I wanted the promotion. So I took shitty, untested weaponry out into the field. And he died because I knew it was untested. Because I wanted that fucking promotion."

Sam shut her eyes, knowing how much Jumper had meant to her brother. She'd met the man when the pair graduated Boot together. Jumper had flirted shamelessly with her, until John threatened to punch the man in the throat. And, instead of dissuading Jumper, it had only fueled the fire. She'd started getting cards from him, too. It had been harmless, innocent fun. And she'd mourned when she learned he'd died.

"I'm so sorry, John." She said softly. "He was a good man. I know you cared about him."

"He was like family, Sam. And I fucked him over in the hopes of getting a goddamned promotion."

"You didn't plan on his death." She had to reason with him. Reach him.

"No, but that doesn't change the fact that my shortcomings did this. Just like they're fucking us over now."

"At least you recognize it, John."

He sighed softly and turned to wipe at the drying blood on the wall. "Recognizing it doesn't change it, Sam."

"No, but it's the first step toward recovery."

"You sound like a fucking shrink. Don't do that."

"I'm a doctor, John. Even if my field of study isn't psychology, I have a little background in that."

"Having a background in psychology and trying to lull your psychotic brother into some kind of calm are two different things, Sam."

"You're not psychotic, John." She placated.

"I sure as shit ain't sane." He shot back, sounding more annoyed.

"John," Sam held up her hands, trying for the peaceful way out of this. He was clearly in need of something. Some kind of outlet for his rage.

"John, why don't I call Jack?" She was thinking aloud, not realizing she hadn't bothered to tell her brother a very crucial detail.

"And just who the fuck is Jack?" He had stopped all pretense of cleaning now. Standing, quietly, he wadded and fidgeted with the bloodied rag in his hands.

"Oh!" Sam brightened and smiled softly. She was jumpy, and he had a sinking suspicion as to why. "He's this guy. I met him at work. He's really nice."

John's face just fell. She'd found someone. They were going to stay in Colorado.

Correction: _She_ was going to stay in Colorado.

John knew it would happen, eventually. She'd meet someone and want to have a life of her own. And why wouldn't she? Why would she dedicate her entire life to caring for her idiot brother who couldn't manage on his own anymore? John fought the irrational jealousy, knowing that he'd never have that stability. He'd never have someone to balance him on that level.

"He knows some guys who run a firing range. You could go play with the guns and blow off steam." _And meet Jack_. That went unsaid, but it hung between them. The proverbial elephant in the room. John tossed the rag and turned away, looking at anything but Sam. And his bloody, damp clothing.

"You want to foist your fucked up brother off on some guy you just met. Sure that's wise, Sam?" He stopped at the window and peeked out through the curtain.

"I want my brother to meet someone else who means something to me." She tried for a middle ground.

John shut his eyes tightly and tried not to let his own insecurities and jealousy creep into his voice. "I'm happy for you, Sam."

"You're not, but that's okay." She'd always been good at sussing out his mood. Seeing through his lies. "I really think you two would get on. He's ex-military, too."

John finally broke and glanced back at her. She was trying. And who was he to gainsay her happiness? She smiled when their eyes met, though it was cautious. Sam knew her brother well. Knew there was far more than what she was seeing. "I've told him about you. Told him you could use a friend."

John rolled his eyes and laughed humorlessly. "I need more than that, but I suppose it's a good start."

"So after you clean up, I'll give him a call. And while you two are doing whatever it is you military-types do, I'll find us a new place. I know where the range is. I'll pick you up."

"You're not gonna let this go, are you?" He moved away from the window, noting that she moved quickly out of his way. Fear. She was afraid of him. That thought hurt worse than he cared to admit. Of all the people on the planet, she was the only one he wouldn't hurt.

"Nope. Go shower. You reek. He doesn't need to be thinking you're some kind of weird drunk."

"I'd be the weird drunk if I could get drunk."

"Go."

Hands up, John relented and disappeared into the bath. He didn't hold a lot of hope for the meeting. But he'd do it for her sake.


End file.
